


tip the glass

by venaticorum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venaticorum/pseuds/venaticorum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is Hannibal’s new Persephone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tip the glass

Will’s hands are trembling.

Hannibal’s eyes are intent on him and a darker shade than usual. He licks his lips, and Will catches his eyes darting to Will’s glass. Fresh pomegranate juice. It reminds Will of blood, he’d said, but Hannibal’s been injured because of him. The least he can do is drive Hannibal home, remain overnight, and eat breakfast with him. Even if a part of this process entails stomaching the tart taste of pomegranate. So he drinks, without realizing the drink has been poisoned.

It makes little sense, he thinks, as Will notices the tremors in his hands. “You poisoned this,” he says, surprised at his own words. He touches the glass with the tip of a finger, nail scrapping the glass.

Hannibal tilts his head, “No. I don’t poison food, Will.” He smiles though, and Will knows there’s more. It takes a while before Hannibal speak again; the man takes three bites of his meal before he offers Will anymore information. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Persephone myth.”

Will frowns and his brow furrows, puzzling through the statement. Worse, he can’t feel Hannibal’s intentions. He can’t feel much of anything; there are no answers. “Are you trying to tell me you’re trying to make me into your bride?” It’s the only thing he can offer as a possible reason; he is lost (at the moment at least) without his empathy.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible in this country at the moment,” Hannibal replies, slicing into his sausage. Will doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. He’s so used to smiling at Hannibal’s comments and suggestions, but this is not normal for them. Or perhaps, Will thinks, he has finally gone insane, and the breakfast is all in his head. He wonders about the poison (if there is any). Hannibal claims there isn’t, but his body feels strange. His limbs feel heavy—and chilled.

Will has broken out in a cold sweat, and Hannibal sets his napkin down beside his plate, folded neatly. He stands, and Will stands with him, so quickly that his chair tips back and falls. It is Will’s intention to run, but the quick movement makes him feel ill. Instead, he clutches the edge of the table, casting a glance at Hannibal as he approaches. “What did you give me?” Will asks, just as Hannibal rests a firm hand against his waist. His other hand curls around Will’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t poison you, dear Will,” Hannibal says again. He presses his face into Will’s neck, nosing at the flesh and inhaling the scent. “You’ve changed your cologne,” he says, lips grazing Will’s skin. Hannibal’s hand moves, sliding down Will’s clothed shoulder and down his arm. All the way along, he applies a firm pressure, and moves with patience. 

Will shivers. Anything this bizarre must be a daydream.

But then, Hannibal bites him, and yelping, Will manages to break free for a moment. He looks at Hannibal’s face, and he is surprised that nothing has changed. He isn’t looking at milky-eyed Garrett Jacob Hobbs. There’s no stag drifting into his vision of the scene, and Hannibal wears a familiar neutral expression. There is nothing to suggest he is dreaming. There is nothing to prove that this is unreal.

“What does any of this have to do with the myth, Hannibal?” Will asks, shifting back a step. He, after another step, has to grab a chair to steady himself, and when he looks at the table setting, his vision blurs a little. There are too many bright colors, shapes, and patterns. He can’t feel Hannibal, though he is trying hard now, but there is a great void where Hannibal should be. There is no skin to slide into, no motives he can understand.

Hannibal shakes his head, “You’re about to faint, I’m afraid. When you wake, I’ll explain it to you.”

Will opens his mouth to protest, but finally, he sees him. Hobbs is standing behind Hannibal, eyes piercing through him. “See? See?” he mouths. Will doesn’t hear anything, but he suddenly feels like he's suffocating. He slumps against the chair before sliding down to the floor.

He is not quite unconscious when Hannibal comes over, sighing to himself. Will is lifted, with ease, into Hannibal’s arms, and Hobbs, in the edges of his darkening vision, turns and touches the glass of pomegranate juice with a tilt of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> This can also be found on my tumblr here: http://kirkery.tumblr.com/post/50636512960/tip-your-glass.


End file.
